


Life After

by momma2mm



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-01-03 19:02:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12152862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momma2mm/pseuds/momma2mm
Summary: One year has passed since the war ended. Katniss and Peeta, having fought their way through loss, grief, and flashbacks, finally have peace within their grasp, but can they keep hold of it when the Capitol recalls the Mockingjay? AU, but based on canon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is currently 13 chapters in (and continuing), but I'm doing some rewrites and will post as they are completed.

Chapter 1:

Cold. Bright. Too Cold. Too Bright.

Shivering against the cold I instinctively reach to pull up the collar of my hunting jacket but startle my fingers gasp soft fur instead of the worn leather. My eye immediately dart down my length of my body, but even as they take in the fur-trimmed satin teal cloak wrapped around me, my brain can't seem to process the site. Where is my father jacket? my brain demands.

Grappling with my confusion, I run a hand down the silky front of the garment but gasp when the skin of my wrists begin to tingle and sting wherever the fur at my cuffs touches me. Instinctively I begin yank at the offending fur, but soon as the delicate skin of my palms touches it I feel as if I've grasped a hot coal. I yelp and yank my hand away and finding it red and blistered. Reaching up with my uninjured hand I begin racking at a button at my neck that seems responsible for keeping the garment attached to my body. The intensity of burning sensation begins to grow, not just at my wrists but around my neck as well and soon my movements become frantic. I've just about worked the button from its when suddenly the air around me is filled with a strained and tortured scream.

"KATNISS!"

My burning skin forgotten, my head snaps up. The brightness that was offending moments before now completely floods my senses. My head swings instinctively into my shoulder and a hand comes up to shield my eyes. My eyes gradually adjust and to my surprise, I find that source of the illumination light, but color. Surrounding me are vibrant, almost shimmering, shades of pink, yellow and orange. The gaudy and painfully bright shades cover nearly every vertical surface of the builds that surrounds me. A breath catches in my throat, I would know this garish collection of buildings anywhere; I'm in the heart begins pounding painfully in my chest as my eyes gaze dart the landscape.

Suddenly a whisper catches on the cold breeze. "More like a sunset," it calls out to me.

I'd know the voice anywhere. "Peeta!" I scream. But even as my voice echoes of the buildings surrounding me, the burning of my skin intensifies. That which started at my neck and wrist now reach down my chest and up to my elbows. I groan out in pain but try to ignore it as I begin spinning in circles trying to recall the direction Peeta's voice came from. I find the streets eerily devoid of life and the pain makes concentrating on my task impossible. A growl of frustration just leaves my throat when another, all too familiar voice echoes down the street again.

"Katniss!" it pleads.

There is no confusion as to which way the sound came from this time. Instantly my feet take off in the direction of the cry.

"PRIM!" I shriek.

As I run the cloak wraps around my legs constricting my movements igniting my skin even further, but I push through the searing pain. As I run, Peeta's voice calls out again.

"Help me Katniss! Please!" he begs.

As before, the direction of his voice is undeterminable. "Where are you?" I beg as tears begin to stream down my face, but streets are silent in return. I run for what feels like forever, winding down one empty street after another until suddenly I find myself at the edge of the city center, the president's mansion looming over a vacant square. My feet skid to a stop and I instinctively know that I have reached my destination.

I quickly dash behind the corner of the nearest building and try to slow my heavy breathing. With breath normalizing a bit, I slide down to crouch and peek around the corner of the buildings bright yellow façade. Across the empty cobblestone square and behind a large ornate gate is the perfectly manicured lawn of the presidential mansion. In the middle of the lawn is a small garden of white roses and nestled in it a large steel plate. I recognize it at once. It is exactly like the transport plates used to bring tributes into the arena.

Giving the vacant square a warily glance, I cautiously begin crossing the square towards the lawn. I've only taken a few steps when the pedestal grinds to life. My first instinct is to run back to my hiding spot, but with Peeta and Prim's voice still fresh in my mind I push myself forward, but cautiously and on hunter's feet. I've made it about halfway across the square when the "tribute" finally appears on the pedestal. It's Peeta and he is strapped to a hospital bed. I know immediately that person on the plate is not the Peeta that was sent back to Thirteen to kill me, but my Peeta. The Peeta with the bread. The Peeta with the pearl. Peeta my friend.

"PEETA!" his name comes out in a strangled cry.

His eyes shoot to mine and they are afraid, frantic. My heart jumps into my throat and my cautiousness of moments ago is forgotten as I sprint out across the square towards him.

"Katniss...Katniss...please! I need help!" Prim's scream echoes from my right.

My feet come to a halt about 10 feet from the gate of the mansion and my head snaps in the direction of her scream. About a 100 years away I find Prim kneeling next to a little girl in a lemon yellow coat. She has her hands pressing a bloodied cloth to the girls head but her eyes aren't on her task they are instead lifted skyward. I don't need to look up to see what she's staring at, I know what's coming. Fear and horror pulse through me.

A deeply anguished cry suddenly come from Peeta and my head whip back in his direction. The vignette in the yard has changed, Peeta has joined by the one and only President Snow. In Snow's hand, I spot a syringe full of neon green tracker jacket venom poised and ready to be plunged into Peeta's bicep. My breath catches in my throat and my eyes dart from Peeta, to Prim, up to the slowly descending parachutes, and back to Peeta again.

President Snow grins at me with his snake smile and shakes his head. "You can't save either of them," he hisses and in one smooth motion jabs the needle into Peeta's arm and depresses the tracker jacker venom into his vein.I gasp and my stomach turn threats to spill its contents onto the cobblestones under my feet.

"No!" I scream but it's too late.

One look at Peeta's face and I can see he is already gone. He's pleading eyes are replaced with murderous ones. He begins screaming hateful things at me and straining against the bed restraints trying desperately free himself so that he can kill me.

Tears fill my eyes and my heart wrenches, but I shake my head against a sob.

"Peeta's gone, I have to save Prim," I whisper aloud to myself, but somewhere deep in my brain, I know my old Peeta has been gone for a long time and that I can't save Prim either because this isn't real.

My head spins as reality and nightmares war against each other for purchase in my consciousness. Though I know it's futile, I blindly stumble towards Prim. A snapshot from reality fills my field of vision. As if frozen in time I see Prim, her long blonde braid over one shoulder, kneeling amongst the broken bloody bodies of Capitol children, her face still turned up to the sky.

I know what comes next but I can't keep the strangled desperate cry that tears out of my throat. "Prim! RUN PRIM!"

And now I'm running towards her. I run fast as my feet can carry me but it seems no matter how fast I run Prim never gets closer. Then suddenly I'm aware that the fur of cloak that was scorching me earlier has now burst into flames. Flames lick and climb, working work their way up my body toward my face but I ignore, I continue running.

"Prim... Prim please... please run" I desperately plead, but even as the words leave my mouth, I see a little gray parachute land gently on the ground directly in front of her.

Suddenly everything goes red, orange and yellow and Prim's form is wrapped in fire. In hot, scorching, killing fire. I open my mouth to call out to her but fire fills it, stealing my breath. My words. My soul. Soon my whole body is ablaze and as I fall to my knees in agony I hear President Snow's laugh on the hot wind, "Ladies and gentleman... Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire..."

A loud boom rattles the very floor of my room and shakes me awake. I shoot straight up in bed, my eyes wide but the fiery nightmare still threatens to me. Tears fall hot and desperate down my face as I try to grasp onto reality. One my hands frantically reaches out across the expanse of my bed for Peeta but it only finds rumpled cold sheets. As the room slowly comes into focus reality seeps in. There are no arms for me to find refuge in. Peeta's asleep three houses away, probably fighting his own nightmares of me as a mutt.

Reaching shaky hands down, I tug at the blankets that I kicked off and pull them to my chin before sinking back against my pillow. I take a long shaky breath, I try to focus on the rain tapping against my bedroom window, but it's no use. All I can think of is the image of my sister turning to ash. Renewed tears squeeze between my closed eyelids as a familiar feeling fear and desperation claim me once again. My terror is brought to a whole new level when lightning flashes and a boom of thunder so loud shakes the house, rattling the windows in their frames.

A surge of panic so intense drives me out of my bed, down the stairs and sprinting barefooted down the stone path of Victors Village before my brain can even register what I'm doing. Slowly the fingers of the ice cold rain that pummels me, working it's into my subconscious and my feet stutter to a stop. Taking a few deep breaths, my expelled air comes out in misty clouds as I fight for some control over my racing heart. I've nearly convinced myself to head home when a clap of thunder shakes the earth under my feet. Any control I had reigned in disappears in an instant and my terror goes into overdrive.

Feet sliding on the rain-slicked stones, I run down the path and up Peeta's walkway. Reaching his steps I hastily clamor up them, but my foot slips about halfway up and I stumble, landing on my hands and knees. Sharp pain shoots through my right knee and down my leg, but the pain doesn't deter me. I curse under my breath and limp, albeit more cautiously, up to the landing. It's only when my hand touches the coolness of doorknob that I stop. I can't make myself turn it.

Taking a shaky breath, I reluctantly drop my hand to my side and slump down to the ground. Sobbing softly, I rest my forehead against the wet surface. I so desperately want to go inside. I want to, as I had done so many carelessly times before, slip into Peeta's bed and his comforting embrace. I want to be warmed by him, made to feel safe by him, but that isn't reality. What it is…it's proof of my selfishness. Of me wanting to take what I need from Peeta. Me, once again, not considering his feeling, his needs or his thin hold on sanity.

Peeta's return to Twelve a year ago has done nothing but good things from simple presents brought with it a sense of peace that I needed to begin the task of trying to live again after Prim's death. Our relationship, whatever it was before the rebellion, of course, doesn't look the same, how could it? With his highjacking and the deep scares, we both carry from the rebellion and our times in the arenas, neither of us is who we were before. It has been the healing power to time, and of course Peeta's persistence, that has helped us develop a new connection. It started slow, as most things that endure do, with silent breakfasts a few times a week. Slowly things morphed into walks around Victors Village in the afternoons, then to working together in the garden next to my house caring for the primroses, he planted for Prim and our small vegetable garden. Eventually, it turned into most evenings spent together, sometimes Haymitch joining us, to work on our memory book. Time has knitted back together into a new configuration, and this new connection doesn't include much touching. Yet in spite of the hours we've spent together in the last 6 months, we physically touch very little. Outside of accidental brush of a hand or necessary contact, I keep my distance from him. It was early on it became clear to me that my physical proximity makes his hijack episodes occur with more frequency and intensity.

Peeta is healing, and thanks to his diligent focus on his therapy he is far from the raving madman he was in Thirteen a year ago. His progress has slowly chipped away at the mutt the Capitol made and I know that these days there more than enough of the old Peeta inside of him that if I go to him he won't turn me away. It is this reality that has carried me to his door tonight, but I also this that keeps me from him. Holding me would have consequences for him that I can't begin to imagine.

Bringing my fingertips to the door I rub slow circles in the raindrops and I weep. Sobs escape me for what has been done to us, for our dead family and friends, for Peeta and the personal hell in his head, but selfishly, I mostly weep for the loss of the safe harbor I used to find in his arms. I'm useless. I'm selfish.

I don't know how long I sit being drenched by the rain as I wallow in self-pity, but when a light from the hallway suddenly cascades through the doors sidelight I'm instantly alert. Sitting up straight, I angrily swipe at the tears mixed with rain on my face as I focus on the sounds beyond the heavy door. My hunter's senses aren't needed to identify Peeta's heavy approaching footfalls. I'm frozen only momentarily as I consider staying right here, waiting for him to open his door to me, but then I remember my selfish nature and choose to put Peeta first.

Lumbering to my feet, I move on cold stiff legs down the front stairs. I've barely hidden in the bushes at the bottom of the stoop when the door opens and the warm light cascades down the stairs and onto the wet ground around me. Gazing between the branches of an ornamental spruce, I watch as he steps out into the downpour and looks around. My breath catches as his eyes sweep to my hiding place, but he quickly looks away. He gives the yard one last curious look, before turning and heading back inside. I stay crouched and shivering in the bush long after he's turned out the light in the hallway. When I'm certain he isn't returning, slowly detangle myself from the branches. Wrapping my arms around my middle I begin making my way towards home. The rain has stopped now, and the sun has begun to push its way into the valleys around me. I bask in the oranges of the coming sunrise and thinking of nothing but Peeta.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be pre-warned, POV's change though out this story :)

Dipping my brush into the soft yellow paint on the pallet in front of me, I swirl it around mindlessly as I regarding the canvas in front of me. Only a couple hours earlier it had been blank, but having fled my bed to escape a nightmare of sewer mutts, I had taken refuge here in my studio. Between the rhythmic tapping of rain on the window and the sound of my brush against canvas, I've managed to shove the lingering images back into the darker recesses of my mind. Painting is one of my two escapes from the mutt that still lives inside of me. Like baking, it allows me to focus on the motion of the task. Whether it be the rhythm of strokes to a canvas or the elastic kneading of bread, the tasks take me out of myself.

Taking a cleansing breath, I catch the hint of cinnamon mixing with paint thinner in the air. I smile and lean back on a stool I have set up in front of my easel. "Bread and paint. Well I sure as hell didn't picture the paint part as a kid," I mumble into the empty room. Baking was a given of course, but drawing or painting was a pipe dream that I only indulge in, in my free time, which being the son of the towns one and only baker was practically never. In truth, the only real time I got to work on artistic endeavors was when I was icing cakes. Painting came later, after the first arena. Back then it had been something different, away to confront my demons. After the second arena and the Capitol, it had changed. Now the images I create are of pleasant moments, of memories I don't want to forget.

Standing again, I lift my paint-laden brush up and begin adding layers of color to the primrose on the canvas before me. As the flower starts to come to life under my bristles, the events of the day that inspired the art begin filtering through my mind.

It had been a sunny and surprisingly warm day for early May, though you wouldn't guess it now with the rain coming down in buckets outside my window. My morning had been spent baking bread, wheat loaves and quite a few of them. With the number of reconstruction workers increasing in Twelve every day, and the still too infrequent trains carrying grocery supplies coming from around the country, staples like bread have become quite the commodity. While recovering in the Capitol my therapist, Dr. Aurelius, had recognized the healing power of redirection that baking and painting had on my mental health and had encouraged me to continue them as part of my at home therapy. Thankfully I had taken the advice to heart and few months prior to my release began stockpiling my empty Victors Village pantry. Fortuitous or not, the extra goods, and my need for continuing therapy have served me and the people of my district well.

After an entire morning of baking, I was ready for a break from the hot kitchen so I grabbed a sandwich and took my lunch out under a tree in my backyard. I had just unwrapped it when I spotted Katniss coming around the side of her house a large turkey in her hand. With a heavy game bag strapped across her body, it appears her morning's hunt had been exceptional. Like me, she seems to weather the hard days a little easier if she keeps herself occupied. She hunts, I bake, and we hope that it's enough to keep the darkness at bay.

Pausing briefly at her back door she drops her game bag on the back porch before turning and crossed the backyards, the turkey in tow. Stopping only a few feet from me, she silently holds out the bird by its neck for my inspection. Giving it a good once over I look up into her eyes but find hers fixated a dandelion at her feet.

"That is one big bird," I point out and then curse myself for stating the obvious. Clearing my throat, I push past my awkwardness and add "What ya going to do with it?

At that, her eyes finally leave the weed at her feet to lock them with mine. "Well, I figured we'd eat it," she says her lips turning up ever so slightly at the corners.

This was the closest thing to a smile I've seen in nearly a week. This past Monday would have been Prim's 15th birthday, so happiness, or passes for it for her these days, was hard to come by. Monday and Tuesday she hadn't left her house. I had joined her for breakfast both days, but they had been reminiscent of our first few months together. We ate in silence, the only sound the clink of forks on dishes. To my relief, she ate and even took care of the cat and dishes, which was not something she did when she did in those first months. By Wednesday, she had come out of her shell a bit more, though she was still melancholy, she asked me to join her for a walk. Thursday, I showed up for breakfast and found a note. It simply said "Gone hunting. See you at lunch." We ate her procured rabbits out on her back porch that afternoon and made jabs at Haymitch as he attempted to fix his goose pen. Today I woke to the same note as the day before, this time left pinned to the door. Life has not yet returned to its new normal for her, as it's not like her to stay out the woods past mid-morning, so this attempt at smile, as small at it is, raises my hopes that she may be getting past the worst it.

I eagerly I return her gesture with a small smile of my own. "Oh yeah? You, me, Haymitch and what army?" I smirk. Katniss guffaws and rolls her eyes. My heart jumps a little at the normalcy of the action. "Katniss that thing," I say gesturing towards the bird, "it's huge!" I laugh.

Again the corners of her mouth twitch upward. "Probably mostly feathers," she argues almost playfully. I raise my eyebrows up in doubt. Lifting the fowl up she gives it once over inspection, before giving me an uncommitted shrug. "Okay. Maybe it's a little on the large side…but…"

"Katniss!" I guffaw, "Unless you plan on giving it a name and turning our trio into a quartet..." I say, and even as I do a memory surfaces. Young Katniss in a red dress singing the Valley Song. For a second I start to panic, afraid I will tumble into a hallucination, but the only thing I feel is a slight pang of affection. I guess the capitol didn't mess with that memory. I smile and continue with, "...It's too big for just the three of us."

My lame attempt at a joke seems to work, and her mouth turns up in a true smile. "Well I don't think this guy would be a very good singer," she says holding the bird up again, "you know, broken neck and all."

"I actually think the bigger issue would be his ability to remember the words to the songs, seeing that he has a hole in his brain," I chuckle. She rolls her eyes at me, but I can see a light behind them. _There she is _, my mind rejoices, _she'll make it past this. _____

_____ _

_____ _

Laying a finger along my chin, I play at serious consideration. "How about instead of staring what could possibly be the weirdest singing group ever, we do like you suggest and eat it. We could, to avoid wasting any of it, invite Haymitch, Greasy Sae, her granddaughter, Thom, and his girl Becca over for a big dinner," but even before I finish speaking I can see panic rising in her. "Or we could cook it up and make soup from the extra, take it down to the work crews downtown," I counter quickly.

I watch as she weighs her options. "No," she finally decides, "let's have the dinner."

"Are you sure?" I ask.

Her eyes which had drifted down to the bird come back up to meet mine. "Yeah," she says attempting a resolved tone. "It'll be good, Fun."

"I'll make the bread," I smirk. She snorts and walks a few feet from me and unceremoniously drops the turkey in the grass. At her return, I hold out half of my sandwich to her, "Want some lunch?" I offer. Nodding she take the offering and sinks down in the grass next to me. We eat, passing the time in fits of small talk and long companionable silences. Once the sandwich is consumed, Katniss brushes the crumbs from her lap before standing and going over to retrieve the turkey. "Thanks for the sandwich," she says before turning towards her house. She only takes a few steps before she stops and turns back to me. "The garden needs weeding, could I..I mean we…um…work on it today?" she asks softly. I can see that tears have come to pool along her bottom eyelids threatening to escape. Prim's birthday is clearly making the garden of primroses hard place for her to be alone in this week. I had taken up sole responsibility for caring for the garden this past week so it's another sign of her resurfacing when she asks for us to resume our regular schedule.

"Yes, of course," I agree without hesitation. "I have loaves in the oven, but once they are out I'll come over." She nods in understanding and without another word turns and heads for home.

I stand and absently brush away my own wayward crumbs as watch her retreating form. Once she is out of sight, I turn and head for my own house. I stop first in the kitchen to pull the last four loaves from the oven before quickly going to my room to change into work clothes. On my way out the door, I stopped briefly in the kitchen again and grab two of the fresh loaves and tuck them under my arm before heading out the back door and across the yards.

My first stop is Haymitch's. Pushing open his back door I step into to the darkened kitchen. Haymitch is in one of his usual sleeping spots, his kitchen table. I don't bother waking him, I just find a clean kitchen towel, which is actually easy since Greasy Sae starting doing his housekeeping, and wrap one of the loaves in it and put it on the table in front of him. I'm about to leave when I remember the turkey dinner plan. Grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil off the desk by the phone, I jot a quick note and leave with the bread before heading out the door.

I've just about reached Katniss back porch when the screen door opens and she steps out. Stretching out my hand I offer her the loaf of bread I'm carrying. "Thanks, I'll just put this in the kitchen," she says and disappears into the house again.

I don't wait for her to reappear, instead, I head out around to the side of the house. Taking a slow stroll along the garden bed, eyeing first the primroses against the house then inventory of the seedlings in the ground closest to me. The vegetables had been an addition this spring after we realized the supply trains were not yet reliable.

Deciding on a closer inspection of the primroses first, I gingerly I cross over on a stone path and kneel awkwardly. I begin pulling a few stray weeds from around the base of the flowers and give them a thorough inspection. They look heath and happy and have at least doubled in size since I planted them here late last summer. Behind me, I hear the clang of a metal pail and know that Katniss has joined me. "I think by the end of the summer will be ready to split," I state as I pull up another weed by its roots.

"Hum?" I hear her murmur mindlessly.

Pausing, I look over my shoulder at her, she kneeling on the ground in front of a baby tomato plant, her hands gently tying the thin stem to a stick with a piece of twine. "The primroses, they're getting quite large, we'll need to divide them up," I explain.

She looking up and meets my eyes. "You know you kind of freak me out when you say stuff like that," she says. I give her a quizzical look and she adds, "You're a townie, you're not supposed to know how to garden," she says.

I feel my mouth turn up in a smile. "Ah, that is true," I agree, "but thanks to the generosity of the Capitol, I was taught to read," I say mimicking the affected accent of Capitol. She rolls her eyes at me and moves on to the next tomato plant.

Turning back to the primroses, I stare at them for a long moment before reaching out and plucking one of the flowers. Standing up, I stiffly make my way over and kneel next to Katniss. I hold the flower out to her.

Her gaze lingers a flower for a long moment before she slowly brings her hand up to stroke the silky petals. "They're the same color as her hair," she says quietly taking the flower from my hand. She stares down at it as a single tear silently falls to drip onto the soft yellow bloom.

We're quiet for a long moment before I say softly, "It's as if they were named for her, not the other way around."

Katniss sadly nods her head, "Thank you," she whispers, placing it behind her ear.

We silently go back to our work tending to the tomatoes and weeding, but what I want to do is reach out and place my hand on her back in a gesture of comfort, but I can't…or I shouldn't. I really don't know which is it these days. When I first got home I defiantly couldn't touch her without fear the mutt would escape, but lately…I'm not so sure. Therapy and time have both worked to change me. Honestly, at this moment I'm not sure if I'm holding back her or me.

Two arenas and the war they each took parts of her soul, but the bombs that took Prim from this world, they took her will to live. Over the past several months she has begun to heal. She gets up, showers, eats, hunts and on her better days she gardens with me, it is, however, the tribute memory book that has probably helped her the most. We've worked nearly every day for the past few months on it. It seems that each page we complete, gives her back a small part of what was taken, and for that I'm grateful. As the thought crosses my mind I ponder it. A year ago I wouldn't have felt this way. A year ago I wanted to kill her, so being grateful she is choosing not to die is a significant improvement.

Moving back to 12 has turned out to be better for me than I, or my doctor, had anticipated. Actually, it's downright amazing to Dr. Aurelius. He was against my returning. "Peeta, moving back, it's counter-intuitive to your recovery, not to mention the danger you will put Katniss in," is what he had said when I told him my plan to return. "I know as your treatments have been progressing that some of your old feelings have started surfacing. You may be feeling a longing to be near her, but Peeta I'm not sure you're ready for this...you never may be ready."

His worry was understandable and even I was concerned about my stability, but he was wrong about my motives. My sole purpose for returning was not Katniss, at least not in the way he supposed. I wanted to come back to District 12 because it was my home. It is where I had been raised, where my family was buried, where I felt most at home. I had been all over Panem and could choose to live anywhere, on a beach or next to a cornfield, but what I needed was mountain air. I may have grown up a "townie", may have never snuck beyond the fence like Katniss or Gale, but the mountains still called to me. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

Dr. Aurelius, and pretty much everyone else, thought it was love that brought me back to 12, but it wasn't as simple as that. If I'm honest with myself, I do have to admit that Katniss played a part in my decision but it wasn't something as simple as love for her that drove that part. I can clearly remember loving her…from before. It was just how I felt. My care for didn't come without is problems or hang up on my end, but in the end, it wasn't really a choice. As breathing come automatically, so did my love of her. It was so complete that I was even undeterred when she couldn't return my affection. The feelings I was returning home with, however, were not as straightforward, not by a long shot. In place of my previous undeniable love I had fear, hate, like, loathing, admiration, even need, but above all them was duty.

As I had begun to sort through all the images, real and not real, the overwhelming feeling that filled me was that of deep abiding duty. I kept recalling one night during the war when our squad was hiding in the underbelly of the Capitol when I had asked her if she was still protecting me and she simply replied, "Yes, because that's what you and I do, protect each other." Months into my intensive treatment, I had uncovered enough of my real memories to know I owed Katniss a debt. She had saved me three times over in our first games and was going to sacrifice herself in the quarter quell. She faked our romance, in part, to protect me. She barging her freedom with Coin in order to get me back from the Capitol and protected me from myself when I wanted to end it all. I owed her, to protect her when she was in most need of it, so I came home.

A far-off rumble of thunder is what pulls me back to the task at hand. Looking up into the sky I notice the dark clouds off to the north and nod my head at them. " We better be finishing up," I say breaking the silence.

Katniss lifts her face up to look at the darkening sky and as she does her hair falls over her shoulder and the primrose blossom tumbles from behind her ear. Without a thought, I pluck it from the grass and reach up to slid it back to is its place behind her ear. As I do, the tips of my fingers brush her warmth ear and the smooth strands of her hair cover my hand. A familiar warning alarm raises in my head and my reflexes take over quickly snatch my hand away from her. The flower falls untended to the ground as the rain begins to fall in a soft mist. I scramble to as quickly as possible on the wet grass, my mind spinning. This isn't an episode. I realize. Relax and breath.

Clearly startled by my frantic movements she looks up at me from her spot on the ground to lock her eyes with mine. "I'm...I'm sorry" she stutters.

"No Katniss… it's okay," I stammer taking a few deep breaths and trying to relax the tight muscles of my back. "It wasn't one," I promise.

Katniss scoots back on the grass, putting more space between us, and stands up, tears in her eyes.

"Katniss...please don't cry. I'm fine," I try to sooth.

She looks unconvinced. "I should be more cautious," she says in a rush.

Taking a small step towards her, I consider how best to convince her of the truth. "It wasn't one." I say again emphatically "And even it were, it isn't your fault," I state with more force than I mean.

Her face goes soft and sad at the same time, "It's not your fault either," she says gently. For a long moment, we simply stare into each other's eyes before she reaches down and picks up the bucket at her feet. "Thank you for helping with the garden, but perhaps we should call it a day," she says giving me one last glance before turning for the door.

Anger flashes in me, not at her, at Snow. I quickly tap the feeling it down because I decided long ago to stop giving him power over my life. "What about the book," I call after her retreating form.

She stops and turns to face me, "Not tonight, tomorrow...after dinner," she suggests. And with that, I know she's closing herself off from me. She does this whenever she thinks I'm struggling with flashbacks, she thinks it will make it easier for me, but the truth is the one thing that has helped the most in the last year is time with her, but I know it's pointless to argue with her so I just shake my head in understanding. Giving me a wave her hand, she turns and heads into the house.

As the image of her retreating form replays in my memory I drop my brush in the jar of paint thinner and sit back to consider my work. Shocked is the closest word I can find for what I feel as I appraise what I have created. For the first time since before the quarter quell, I've painted Katniss, and I didn't even know I was doing it.

I originally planned on painting a landscape of primroses in the woods, and while I have painted a primrose, it is the one tucked behind Katniss's ear from this afternoon. The painting is a profile of sorts. In focus is the top of her ear and the bloom, then radiating out from there the painting goes into soft focus of her hair and profile. It's soft, delicate, and totally surprising to me. How could I not know I was painting this? Unnerved I rub my temples with shaky hands as my thoughts swirl around as if on a whirlwind.

I'm so deep in thought that when I hear a soft scraping sound at my front door I nearly jump out of my skin. Alerted, I listen for a long few moments. I've just decided I imaged the noise when I hear it again. Getting up, I half walk, half stumble, towards the front door. As I pull it open a well times lightning bolt flashes lighting up my front stoop. I find the space empty. Taking a tentative step out into the rain, I stretch my neck out and scan the walk that connects the houses in the victor's village. No one is there. The rain, which is coming down in swells, has me drenched and I begin to shiver. For lack of evidence for the noise I heard, I turn retreat back into the house.

Closing the door I pause for a moment in the entryway to push my damp hair from eyes and to give the large silent house a listen. But again, there is nothing. Giving up, I head upstairs and quickly change my clothes before heading back down to the studio. Standing once again in front of my painting, the feelings of anxiety returns. I turn my head on my shoulder and try to make peace with what my subconscious is trying to tell me, nothing come to mind, at least nothing I'm willing to acknowledge.

Sighing, I walk over to the window and look out. I'm surprised to see the rain has stopped and the sky is clearing to the eastern. The dark heavy rain clouds are still visible, but they have moved far enough west that I can see the rising sun through the trees. The new morning is an amazing display of pinks, purples, and oranges. As the orange in the sky brightens, two old and buried memories float to the surface of my consciousness.

The images flash in quick secession, the first is of Katniss and I sitting side by side on a set of train tracks- the colors green and orange fall from our lips – then we walking hand in hand back to the tribute train. The next is of a dark night, a camp site. I can feel the rope knotted in my hands and can hear the start of the game real - not real echoing between tents, then I hear her voice. She's telling me about the color orange, and about tea and shoe laces and the while, her face is sad, unbelievably sad. Without words she begs and pleads with me to remember her, to remember us…but I can't. How could she expected me to remember her when I can't even believe my favorite color is orange?

My heart is racing now and sweat has begun to bead on my forehead. The muscles of my back stand out like cords and begin to ache. These are the signs. My subconscious signs that I'm about to fall headlong into a hallucination. Gripping the window sill tightly, I take three deep breaths and force my mind and body to relax. It's a nearly insurmountable task, but only nearly. After a undeterminable amount of time, I begin to feel the anxiety ebb. My body is trembling from the exertion as I pry my iron grip on the marble window sill. Somehow I have once more avoided tumbling off the precipice into the deep darkness of the Capitol's making.

Letting out a slow breath, I pull myself upright, "It's time for a change of venue" I mutter. So with one final glance at the painting, I walk out the room and straight into the kitchen where I know I can bury the last remnants of my darkness in dough.


	3. Chapter 3

POV Gale:

On the outset of this journey I was promised that I'd get the "best sleep of my life on a train", but as I lay here watching the crystal chandler above my bed sway to and fro, I can't help but suppress a laugh. Why I had hung any hope on the platitudes of Effie Trinket, is beyond me. After all, she was she transporting children to their deaths when she was getting "the best sleep of her life". _Maybe I should consider the source _, I muse. All I'm certain of is that after an exhausted few days of work in the Capitol, a cross-country trek by luxury train had looked promising for some much needed R and R, especially considering the turbulent nature of my next assignment, but after two days on this damn contraption, I'm anything but relaxed and most defiantly not rested.__

Sighing in frustration, I turn on my side and look out the window at the quickly passing landscape. In the light of the rising sun, I see that sometime during the night the vast farmlands that had occupied the view have given way to the slopes of mountains. The very site of the hillsides re-ignites the low-grade anxiety I've been harboring since I was given my orders last week.

Swallowing back the bile my nervous stomach pushes up the back of my throat, I try to change my train of thought by focusing, not for the first time, on the speech I've prepared for the assignment. My lips have just begun to silently forming the words of my over-rehearsed rhetoric when a knock on my cabin door mercifully interrupts the process. "Come in," I say, rising up on my elbows.

The door slides open and a man dressed in a crisply ironed maroon porters uniform, with hair and eyelids dyed to match, appears in my doorway. "Sorry for disturbing you so early Captain Hawthorn," the man apologizes in his clipped Capitol accent, "but we are about 45 minutes out from your stop," he states.

"Oh...okay. Thank you," I mutter. The porter nods an acknowledgment and disappears a click of the door.

Flopping back onto my pillow I yawn deeply and stretch my aching body. I need to get up, get a shower and maybe eat something, but I can't seem to will my limbs into action; instead, I simply lie here and watch the chandler swing in time with the sway of the train. The morning sun has crept its way across the car and the crystals are throwing colorful light around the room. My eyes go to the wall, where prism-ed light is crisp in contrast with the lush velvety printed wallpaper. The tiny rainbows seem out of place in here amongst the dark furniture and satin bed covers. Lifting one hand, I place fingers on the velvety tuft of the wallpaper as my other palm slides over my silky bed covers. A voice surfaces. A voice I've studiously been pushing from my mind since I boarded this damn train.

_"Yeah, a lot of things should count for something that doesn't seem to, Katniss. I've got some memories I can't make sense of, and I don't think the Capitol touched them. A lot of nights on the train, for instance." ___

____

____

My logical mind reminds me that version of Peeta who spouted these words was still being heavily influenced by the high-jacking he suffered in the Capitol, but after days of denial, my imagination will not be denied.

I see her, Katniss, here in this very bed, her small frame covered in the satiny softness of the gray blanket I myself lay under. My minds-eye travels up the outline of her body until I reach her dark hair, bed tossed and fanned out across her pillow and Peeta's chest. She's curled up on her side, her head resting in the crook of Peeta's neck, her nose press along his jaw.

I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes but I can't stop the images now that they are free.

My thoughts go the secondary member of the pair. Snuggled into bed, free of his shirt, I picture him with his arm wrapped protectively around Katniss's small shoulders, his chin tenderly resting atop her head. The scene can only be described as contentment. Long dormant feelings of anger and jealousy suddenly grip my gut and I grind my hands even harder into my eyes.

"Ugh!" I growl, "This is the last thing I need to be thinking about right now!" I shout at the opulent room. Angerly, I fling the blanket to the side and sit up. Tossing my legs over the side of the bed. I take a few frustrated breaths and try desperately to shove the thoughts back into their locked box. "Damn train," I growl.

When the Rebels won the war all of the Capitol's assets were of course re-purposed including this very luxurious "Tribute" train. When I climbed aboard two days ago I had thought I had hit the jackpot, two whole days of wining and dining in luxury I've never known, but too soon bedtime came, as did my musings about the previous passengers who walked these halls. I have no way of knowing if this even the same train that came to Twelve to collect our tributes, but my overactive imagination didn't let that small detail stand in the way of my torture. As if on queue, Peeta's voice echoes in my head once again.

_"I've got some memories I can't make sense of, and I don't think the Capitol touched them. A lot of nights on the train, for instance."_

 

 

I try to soothe myself with the knowledge that these words were spoken over a year ago and by someone who was at the very least unstable at the time. I've just about convinced myself of my contrived reality when my traitorous thoughts flash to Katniss's face that day in the cafeteria when Peeta spoke those words to her. I sigh. The look on her face in that moment spoke volumes. It spoke the truth of our reality. I knew then, as I do now, that she hadn't bristled because what Peeta had said was a lie, she was upset because he was treading carelessly upon something important and precious to her. When she had snapped at him and ran away, it wasn't because of anger, but because her heart was breaking. I knew then that she cared more deeply for him then I had allowed myself to believe, but I'm good at avoidance. I had fallen in love with her months before the first reaping but avoided my feelings until it was too late; so it wasn't a stretch for me to lock reality away in the recesses of my mind. Then bombs fell and everything changed. I had hurt her, nearly mortally wounded her, so instead of facing the truth, I threw away the key to the door in my mind where I kept everything about her...that was until this trip and this damn train.  Now, the truth has kicked in that door and everything is spilling out. 

Grunting,  I run a frustrated hand through my hair and long for my faux peace for only a second more before straightening my back.  This considering the nature of my next assignment, is the only path to take.  I will just have to function around the feelings, not a pleasant thought, but I've done it before. Taking one last long breath, get to my feet.

Thirty minutes later I'm showered, dressed and standing in the back of the train as it pulls into the station.


	4. Chapter 4

Stuffing my cold and stiff fingers into the box in my hands, I clumsily pull out a long wood match and strike it against the river stones that make up the hearth of my kitchen fireplace. I touch the flame to the kindling I've piled in the back of the firebox and the dry timber catches fast. I quickly piling on a few logs and within a few minutes, the fire is crackling loudly. Scooting closer to the flames, I hold out my icy hands to the orange and yellow tongues licking at the logs. Thirty minutes of hiding in Peeta's bushes in the poring spring-rain had chilled me deep into my core, so much so, that in spite of dry clothes and the blazing fire I'm still shivering.

Rubbing my hands along my arms, I look to the rocker behind me for a light blanket I sometimes fold across the back. The blanket is missing but one of Peeta's sweaters lies in its spot. Reluctantly, I leave my preach on the hearth to retrieved the item and yank it over my head. The gray-blue wool falls loosely around my small frame, hanging off one shoulder and skirting over my hips to land around mid-thigh. Reaching a hand behind my head I pull the attached hood up to cover my still damp hair and catch the scent of dill and cinnamon, the smell of Peeta. The warmth of the sweater beings to thaw me but it's the smell of Peeta that helps me to begin to relax for the first time since my nightmare.

Taking up the fire poker, I move back the warmth of burning logs and gently begin arranging them. Satisfied, I replace the poker and take a seat on the hearth again, my knees tucked up against my chest, the sweater pulled over. I watch as sparks float carelessly up the flue and sigh. I'm finally warm and the sensation is making my drowsy. Chin on my knees, I'm close to drifting off when a muted mews followed by a persistent scrapping pulls me back to consciousness. My gaze goes to the window over the sink, just beyond the glass on the sill is Buttercup looking anxious and annoyed. Unfurling myself from myself from my perch, I curse softly as my bare feet hit the cold floor. Annoyed at my loss of warm comfort, I stomp over to the kitchen window and yank the window open. Unimpressed with my show of annoyance, Buttercup sits stone still on the sill, staring at me. I give the straggly cat a once one, over I notice he looks dry, save his feet and that I'm sure are just wet from walking in the grass.

"How are you so dry?" I grumble, his reply is an unblinking stare. A cool morning breeze stirs my hair and the kitchen curtains and I shiver. "Well, are you coming in or not?" I demand. He stares up at me for another second before deciding to take my invitation. He slowly saunters in and jumps silently to the floor. As I secure the window Buttercup, begins turning figure eights between my legs. “From distance and aloof to cute and cuddly in less than a second, you’re a piece of work, you know that right?” I mutter stepping over him and heading in for the fridge. Taking some leftover fish out, I squat down and put the plate down in front of him. Buttercup cautiously sniffs my offering and looks up at me unimpressed. I laugh. "Really! This isn't good enough for you your highness?" I ask, giving the cat as scratch between the ears. "I suppose it's my own fault for feeding you bacon," I confess. "Well fuzz ball, Peeta isn't here, so no breakfast yet. It's this or you wait." We’re staring at each other when a knock at the front door startles us both. I glance toward the front room and back down at the cat. "Who can that be," I ask him as if he might answer. Peeta, Haymitch, Greasy Sae and her granddaughter Annabeth, are my only regular visitors and they come and go as if they live here. I've not had a single visitor who would knock.

Standing up, I walk hesitantly towards the front door. My visitor knocks again. I hasten my approach and quickly pull open the door. When my eyes meet those of my guest, I stumble backward a few steps in shock.

"Good morning Katnip," Gale says smoothly.

I blink once, twice, three times; my mind racing. "What are you doing here?" I finally manage to whisper.

Unfazed, he smiles his easy smile at me, "Well it's a bit of story, could I maybe come in so we could talk about it?" he asks.

My mind is whirling with so many thoughts I'm frozen in the doorway, unable to reply.

Gale rubs the back of his neck and lowers his eyes to meet mine, "If we are going to do this on the front stoop, maybe you should get a coat, it's kind of cool out here this morning," he offers gently.

With his suggestion, I'm suddenly aware of cold wind nipping at my nose and fingertips. Pulling my hands further into the sleeves of Peeta sweater, I shake my head and take a step back. "Sorry," I mutter, "come in."

Gale steps in, closing the door behind him. For a long moment, we simply stare at each other, then when he does open his mouth to speak his first words are cut short with the sound of the back door opening and Peeta's easily identifiable footsteps in the kitchen. The look of annoyance that flashes across his face at the interruption immediately puts me on the defensive.

In the kitchen, I hear the refrigerator door open and items being moved around inside of it. "Katniss?" Peeta calls out casually.

"I'm in the living room," I manage to answer, my throat tight with tension.

"I brought you some cheese buns," he says, the smile on his face evident in his voice. "Oh and I had an idea for the dinner tonight," he says, the sounds of opening cabinets and drawers following him as he moves about the kitchen.

I answer automatically, "Whats that?", but I'm not comprehending the conversation, my mind is simply making circles trying to make sense out of Gale standing in my living room.

"I have a few oranges and I thought I might try and make that orange sauce we had on tour. I know this is turkey, not those little birds they used, but I don't think that should matter much. What do you think?" he asks.

Blinking my eyes a few times and my head begins to clear. "Peeta could you come in here please," I ask.

I hear Peeta making his way from the kitchen to the living room but his footfalls come to an abrupt stop a few feet behind me. Stealing a glance over my shoulder, I find him standing in the kitchen doorway with a look on his face that makes my stomach tighten. With his jaw set and his eyes hard, he is successfully managing to look angry and unimpressed at the same time. It's a look I know all too well, as I was on the receiving end of it a number of times during the height of his hatred for me. I bite down on the inside of my cheek and hold my breath in anticipation but the look quickly falls away and is replaced with an eerily calm one. With slow deliberate steps, Peeta leaves the doorway and makes his way over to stand next to me.

Foregoing any social pleasantries, Peeta gets right to the point. "What are you doing here?" he demands.

The irritation I saw on Gale's face moments ago is now gone, replaced with careful neutrality. "Peeta" he greets with a nod of his head.

Peeta doesn't return the gesture, instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Gale expectantly.

Looking from myself to Peeta and back again, Gale's shoulders fall a bit and he sighs. "I'm here because you don't read your mail," he says plainly. "The Capitol has sent a number of certified letters to both of you and Haymitch over the past few months... you did receive them, right?"

Peeta and I glance at each other, and I swear I see one corner of his mouth lift in a smirk and I have to bite back a smile threatening spill onto my lips. We did get Capitol letters, at least a dozen of them between the three of us. We got them and then really enjoyed burning them, unopened, one by one.

"We get a lot a mail, we rarely look at any of it," I lie.

Gale raises an eyebrow at my fib, he, of course, knows me well enough to know when I'm lying, but he chooses not to call me out on it, instead he just sighs and runs his hands through his hair. "Yeah, kind of figured it was something like that," he says under his breath. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Gale fidgets uncomfortably for a second before turning to Peeta, "Look, Peeta, I...I was really hoping I could talk to Katniss alone about...about why I'm here, do you think you could..um.. give us some space?" he stammers.

Peeta's head tilts a bit to the side as if considering the request, but after a moment he responds by simply sliding a few inches closer to me.

Gale's face flushes in irritation at Peeta casual denial and he looks to me, silently asking me to step in and tell Peeta to leave, but there is no way that's going to happen. Pulling myself up to my full height, I give my head a small shake in response to his unspoken request. "You said the Capitol's been sending letters Peeta and me, if that's the case then there's no reason Peeta shouldn't be here to hear what you have to say," I say evenly.

Sighing loudly he throws up his hands, "Fine!" he exclaims, "but the letters went to all the victors of District Twelve so should we take this party over to Haymitch's?" he asks, his subtle sarcasm not wasted on me.

Peeta, unfazed by the flippant reply, easily redirects the conversation. "I just came from Haymitch's, his out cold and won't be up for hours, but no worries Gale, Katniss and I can fill him in if the situation warrants it," he says smoothly. I glance over at him and smile inwardly. Peeta has many gifts of course, but his ability to adapt to nearly any conversation and his way with words has always impressed me.

Gale scoffs. "Still a sloppy drunk hu? I thought his time in thirteen dried him out."

Peeta's calm demeanor falters a bit and he bristles and I spot another of his gifts coming through: loyalty. Haymitch may be a drunk but he's our drunk and Peeta will not allow others to pass judgment against him. "He's surviving the best way he knows how," Peeta says his voice low in warning.

"I don't see you and Katniss drinking yourselves to unconsciousness," Gale fires back.

This time, it's me who jumps to Haymitch's defense. "Gale, don't" I warn,"You have no idea what you're talking about."

Outnumbered by two annoyed victors, Gale backs off. Putting his hands up in surrender he manages to look somewhat contrite. "Alright, look... I'm sorry. Believe me, when I say I didn't come all the way here to fight with the two of you," he says.

"Why don't you just get to the point of your visit then," Peeta suggests.

Gale simply nods, and I can see that he is collecting his thoughts. After a good ten seconds, he finally starts. "I've been sent by President Paylor to request your attendance a first annual District Gathering in June," he says, the words clearly rehearsed.

"District Gathering? What is that?" Peeta asks.

Gale seems to waiver at this question and suddenly I feel uneasiness coming off of him in waves. Peeta must feel it too because he takes another half-step closer to me. "It's what it sounds like, a gathering of the Districts, of their leaders...and the remaining victors. President Paylor wants to officially form a council from the district leaders and victors to discuss the issues facing the districts individually and the country as a whole. She believes that each district should have a say in how issues are resolved." he states passionately.

"And?" Peeta asks, clearly expecting the catch to this whole scenario.

"And they want the Mockingjay there," Gales says resolutely.

I feel my eyes widen and my heart begins to pound hard in my chest, but before I can react Peeta is standing directly in front of me, his body tense. "What? NO!" he growls between his teeth. I can't see his face, but I can see by the look in Gale's that he thinks Peeta is about to have an episode, but that isn't what's happening; Peeta is just in protection mode. My mind is spinning, and the questions are lining up in my head making me lightheaded. Be the Mockingjay again? No, I couldn't. I promised myself once that I would kill myself before I would let them make me that again... but... I was a year ago...I was definitely in a different emotional place then and...and it isn't just anyone asking me for this, it's President Paylor. My mind immediately flashes back to the day I stumbled upon Snow's prison cell. I can still hear her words, "She has a right to everything behind that door". She trusted me not only with Snow, and the truth he could give me about Prim's death but in all honesty with the fate of our countries future, after all, it was the conversation that made me assassinate Coin, made me see that she would only ever be just another Snow. Paylor had trusted me, not just as the Mockingjay, but as me, Katniss Everdeen. That alone makes me hesitate. My conflicting thoughts tumble together and I feel like I might faint, but when I see Peeta's hands go into fists, I snap immediately into the present and instinctively I reach over and place my hand on his forearm. For a split second I tense at the contact but when I feel no shift in his mood at my touch, I let my hand drift down until it encircles his wrist. "It's okay," I manage to say to in a low voice. He turns head and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. "I'm okay," I promise, giving his wrist a reassuring squeeze before dropping my hand to my side. He holds my gaze for a long moment, his eyes searching mine and when he's satisfied I see the muscles in his neck relax and his fists loosen. I let out a little sigh of relief.

"After everything that happened with Coin why would they even want her there, let alone as the Mockingjay?" Peeta demands.

"She may not be popular with some folks in thirteen, but most of the people in the districts don't feel the same way about what she did," Gale states. "I guess Coin wasn't completely wrong to worry about the power she has as the Mockingjay," he says evenly.

I can see Peeta body tensing up again. "Coin knew the power Katniss had before she saved her from the arena and never intended on keeping her alive once the war was won. Power corrupts. Coin, Snow, it doesn't matter, they both used her to serve their own interests. So tell me Gale, how are President Paylor's plans any different?"

Gale's eyes narrow and flash in anger and I know Peeta has struck a nerve. In a show of unity, and to hopefully keep this confrontation from coming to blows, I step out from behind Peeta and move to stand at his side.

"I'm not blind to who President Coin was... though in all honesty, I couldn't see it at the time," Gale says honestly, "but in spite of her, the victory is won. Now as citizens of the new Panem have the responsibility to help bring this new government up from its infancy, to make it into the Panem we fought for!" He says his voice rising, but not in the anger of moments before, but instead in the passion, I saw so many times during the uprising.

Turning his eyes square on me, he continues his appeal. "Katniss, I know the idea of being the Mockingjay again is probably the last thing you want to do..."

Peeta interrupts with a loud groan and roll of his eyes. I catch his gaze and hold it for a second, "Peeta, let him say what he came so far to say," I appeal softly. He still looks worried, but he nods his head at me in agreement.

Gail continues, "The truth is things between the Capitol and the districts aren't falling into place as smoothly as everyone had hoped they would," he confesses. "There are a number of issues that are fueling the unrest and this District Gathering is the President's hope to bring everyone to the table to not only discuss them but to get solutions, she calls it "cooperative government". She does, however, worry about how receptive people will be to this new concept. After so many years under Snow's thumb, she's concerned that it may be difficult for some to trust the process." he explains. "Katniss, from the beginning the symbol of the Mockingjay has given people the courage to stand up and fight for their rights, their freedoms. President Paylor believes that you are capable of being that example again and help encourage these new leaders to work together towards the future of our new Panem. The Mockingjay and the victors," he says, pausing to make eye contact with Peeta, before continuing, "are after all perfect symbols of what we fought so hard for, the sacrifices that were made in war. I would think the two of you would be able to relate to that, with all the sacrifice you have had to make." he finishes quietly.

I feel Peeta tense next to me. "Don't," he warns. "Don't pretend to know about the sacrifices we've had to live with."

The tension in the room is almost tangible. "Gale," I say, stopping the words I see forming on his mouth, "this is asking a lot, and not just of me. Going to the Capitol for any reason is...complicated for us. We are going to need to bring this to Haymitch, so we can..." Gale interrupts me before I've finished with my thoughts, "Katniss, it's nice of you to want to consider everyone's feelings, but who are we kidding, this decision is yours to make. You're the Mockingjay! If you say yes you know they will back you!"

My anger flashes instantly. "What? You really think I would do that? And after you just gave me a speech about how the Mockingjay AND the victors are needed...was that a lie?" I demand.

"Of course not! I'm just saying that...that..." he stutters groping for words, "Oh come on Katniss, Haymitch is a drunk! I can see how Peeta's opinion should be weighed, but Haymitch?" he finally spits out. "Honestly, Katniss, while Haymitch's presence would be appreciated, I certainly don't think it's necessary since he'll probably be falling down drunk the whole time!"

My mouth falls open in surprise and anger bubbles up in my chest. Closing the distance between us, I come to stand close enough to Gale that I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes. "Haymitch has spent 25 years in hell as a mentor Gale! He drinks to forget but guess what, it's never enough, it never can be enough because that kind of horror becomes a part of who you are. He'll never get away from it or find a bottle deep enough to completely erase the memory of watching all those kids die and not being able to stop it. So, I ask you, if he finds even the slightest amount of relief from being wasted who are we to deny him that?" I demand. Gale looks like he wants to speak but he thinks better of it, so I continue my voice rising as I do. "I will also remind you that this peace our new government is working so hard to hold together, Haymitch helped make possible. If it weren't for him and the other rebels who helped laid the foundation of the revolution right under the Capitol's noses, there wouldn't have been war. No freedom. No 'district gatherings.'" I spit out on the brink of fury. Taking a shaky breath I work hard to calm myself before continuing, "Let me be very clear about this," I say, "IF I agree to do this, it will only be because ALL of us have agreed to it." My hands are shaking from the rush of adrenal my anger triggered, but having said my peace, I can feel myself coming down from the high and as my body begins to relax I feel an ache at the base of my neck from looking up at Gale so I take a few steps back to rejoin Peeta.

Gale's missteps regarding Haymitch have has clearly thrown his plans to woo us to the conference and he now seems at a loss. He takes a calming breath before continuing, "Damn, I suck at this," he mumbles, "I told them I would. Even asked for them to send someone else, but as you know when you are in the military you don't get to pick and choose which orders you will follow...especially when they come directly from the President," he says with a sigh. "But, in spite of my inadequacies, I still have a job to do. It's simple really, I need a response to forward back to the Capitol. A simple yes or no, I can't leave without," he states matter of factly.

The room becomes awkwardly silent, as the words and thoughts of the morning lay bare before us. It's Peeta who brakes the stalemate. "We are going to need time to discuss this," he says curtly.

Gale nods in reluctant agreement. "My train doesn't leave until 10 tonight, I just need a response by then. I will be in town having meetings and doing inspections this afternoon, you can get a hold of me at the Justice Building once you have made your decision," he says.

"Well, I guess we should rouse Haymitch then," Peeta says, clearly indicating that the conversation has come to an end and Gale should take his leave.

Gale takes the hint and turns for the door but pauses when his hand lands on the knob. "Thank you for giving this request serious consideration and for not dismissing it offhand," he says softly. Then without another word, he pulls open the door and disappears out into the morning beyond.


	5. Chapter 5

Peeta POV

As the front door bangs closed, Katniss and I stand rooted to the floor in the living room staring at the closed door. "So," I draw out, "...Gale."

"Yeah, Gale." She returns softly.

Peaking at her out of the corner of my eye, I do a quick examination and try to determine what might be going on in her head. The combination of Gale's sudden appearance, Katniss's unresolved issues with him, and the news that the Capitol wants to pull the Mockingjay out of mothballs has me worried. This is the kind of thing that could throw her back months in her healing processes. Over the past 6 months I've six or so months she has been making small but incremental steps in her grieving process, seeing her set back by this would be devastating. Not only for her but for me as well. It's selfish to think of myself I know, but it's true. Moving my weight from one leg to the other, I fidget as my thoughts spiral down the rabbit hole of my memories until it lands on the day I planted the primroses. The image I conjure up is of her standing in the yard, sun highlighting her unwashed, hair matted and the look of unyielding, deep, piercing agony in her eyes. A shiver runs down my spine. I can't bear the thought of her going back to that broken person, watching her suffer like that again would defiantly break me.

As the clock on fireplace mantle begins to toll out the hour with its soft chimes, I'm pulled back into the present. Shoving the tortured image to the back of my mind and I focus on the best way to acknowledge the elephant in the room. After a couple of false starts, I finally decided to begin with the loudest of thought tumbling around my head.

"Katniss, you don't have to do this you know. You would be totally justified in telling them all to go to hell." I offer gently.

This brings her gray eyes to mine. "We," she says.

"We?"

"Yes, we. I meant what I said to Gale. I won't do this without you and Haymitch being on board."

I start shaking my head at her, "Katniss..."

"The Mockingjay isn't just about me. You and Haymitch...you'll be under just as much scrutiny as me if we go to the Capitol. If we can't agree as a team then I won't be going," she says resolutely.

I'm astonished by her answer. I thought for sure the very idea of returning would at the very least disgust her, at the worst cause her to revert back to staring silently at the fireplace for days at a time, so the fact that she seems to open to it blows my mind. "Do you... want... to do it?" I ask, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.

She shrugs her shoulders and lets out a long breath. "Want to? No," she admits rubbing her hands over her eyes. "What I can't decide is if it's the right thing to do."

I tilt my head and look closely at her, she seems a little unsettled, but not frantic. Her calm uncanny the face of what we have learned. "I think we should go get Haymitch before getting too deep into this then," I suggest. She nods in agreement. "I can go get him if you'd like," I offer, my voice still

"Okay, thank you. I'll...start some breakfast," she says. Turning on her heels she disappears down the hall.

After a beat, I shake the surprise from my continence then I follow her into the warm kitchen where I find her at the table. In front of her are the eggs and a large bowl that I had pulled out for breakfast when I first arrived this morning. Taking an egg in hand she attempts to crack it along the rim of the bowl but the long sleeve of her sweater falls to cover her hand. She blows out a little sound of irritation and mindlessly pushes it up her arm to her elbow. I'm biting back a smile when it suddenly occurs to me that the sweater she is wearing is mine. When did she take that? I wonder. The sleeve inches back down her arm and slides once again over her hand. She grunts and shoves at it, almost dropping an egg. A low chuckle escapes my throat and I try to disguise it with a cough.

Her head snaps up and she pins me with a frustrated glare. "They're just eggs Peeta! I CAN make scrambled eggs," she says defiantly.

This turns my chuckle into an all-out laugh. Over the past year, Haymitch and I have come to a consensus that while Katniss has many talents, none of them can be found in the kitchen. This one small inadequacy seems to irritate her deeply, so of course, Haymitch goes out of his way to find ways to needle her about it regularly.

She bristles at my laughter, "Do you want to do it?" she hisses, holding the egg out to me in a sweater covered hand.

I bite back my laughter and walk over to the table. "I'm sure you're completely capable of making scrambled eggs Katniss." Reaching over the table, I take the opening of the sleeve from where it lies around her knuckles and give it a few quick turns until it's cuffed a couple of inches above her wrist. Then reaching over and do the same thing to the other. "You know, I'm thinking it might be easier for you to work in one of my tee shirts instead of this," I say offhandedly. As the implication of my words meets my ears I feel heat rush to my face. "I mean, something without long sleeves...ya know...so they don't get in the way," I stammer awkwardly. You are an idiot", I think to myself. Gathering my courage I venture a glance up at her, I'm surprised when I find her looking at me shyly.

"I found it on the back of the rocker this morning...I was cold...it looked warm…" she trails off in way of explanation. "I'm warm now though, you can have it back," she adds quickly and moves as to take the garment off.

My stomach tightens as if she has rejected a gift, a preposterous thought as she has absconded it of her own free will. All the same, the last thing I want is for her to give it back. I shake my head and move quickly around the table to the door. "No, no...you don't have to do that...it's okay," I stammer, hastily pulling open the door. I'm just about to step outside when words continue to leave my mouth without my permission, "You look good in it, you should keep it." As the words fall from my lips I freeze, still as a statue, in the door frame. Why, oh why, did I say that! I berate myself. Am I bent on making things weird between us? I hazard a glance at her, sure that I will find her stripping the garment from her back, but she hasn't moved. Instead, to my utter surprise, find a look of relief on her face.

She reaches for another egg and simply offer me a soft, "Thanks," before she begins cracking the egg against the side of the bowl.

I'm stunned. Katniss rarely takes something without a fair trade in hand, so I'm not sure how to react. Perhaps it's just the shock of the morning and tomorrow I will find the gift folded neatly on my front stoop, but regardless something has shifted between us. I grapple with a rush of thoughts as I blindly make my way through the door.

"Be back soon," I manage to get out before pulling the door closed behind me.

As I make my way across the damp grass for the second time this morning my mind spins trying to piece together the feeling that something has somehow shifted for us this morning.

Katniss's and I's relationship is a bit like springtime in mountains that surround us, slow and a little unpredictable but advancing everyday none the less. For those looking in on us on any given day, the changes might not even be perceivable, but a review of the last year clearly shows an evolution.

We have gone from being barely acquittances to a one-sided love affair, to district partners, to faux fiancés, to Capitol created enemies, but we've never been friends, not really. Back before the games and before the war, most of our interactions were right down awkward, colored by her discomfort of my infatuation of her and the pressures of satisfying Snow in order to save those we loved and ourselves. It's hard to develop a real friendship amidst that kind of chaos. I'm not saying that didn't care for each other, the willingness to die for another person shows a connection. For me back then it was blind love. For her…well, I guess I don't really know, not for sure, but I've always assumed it was her belief that she somehow owed me something. The last year has changed that though. Surprisingly the changes that matter came in the small things, not the big ones. It started with the silent mornings I sat with her as she stared blankly into the fire, then in the countless meals spent in silence, to the weeding of our garden together and the nights spent creating the memory book…and finally in the small acceptance of a trivial gift. We are, for the first time more than a connection forged in the crucible of the games or nights on a train in a comforting embrace; we are…"Real friends," I mutter aloud. The thought is a bit a jolt, but I can't help but laugh. "It's about time," I snort.

Still chucking, I drop down onto Haymitch's steps and gaze up at the bright blue sky. My heart is lighter than it's been in months, which is a juxtaposition to the events of the morning. The two thoughts war for a moment, but when the word "friends," fall from my smiling lips, I know that in spite of Gale and his news, this revelation will be what wins the day. A loud honk startles me from my reverie, and I look down to find a gray monster of a goose at my feet. I quirk up an eyebrow at the beast. "How'd you get out?" I ask, looking into one of its beady eyes. The goose shakes its tail at me then leans down to pecking at one of my boots. Pushing off the steps, I mindless make my way over to the shed and the haphazard pen Haymitch has constructed to shelter his recently found pets. As I approach the birds, who have not escaped, begin honking and flapping their wings in anticipate of breakfast. I'm entering the shed when I hear Haymitch's back door open and his heavy footsteps on the porch.

"What the hell are you doing?!" he growls.

Grabbing the feed bucket, I step out onto the grass. "Well I was going to feed your geese, but…" I say holding the empty feed pail upside down to show the state I found it in.

"You're waking the whole damn neighborhood," he grumbles.

I shake my head ruefully at him, "First of all, Katniss and I are the neighborhood and we're always up at this time. Second of all, these are YOUR geese I'm attempting to ensure do not starve to death, so say thank you. Lastly, it's normally it takes an act of god or Effie Trinket to get you up before noon, are you out of liquor again?" I ask.

Haymitch huffs and snatches the bucket from my hand. "Goose feed should be on today's train. I've been given 'em vegetables until it gets here," he grouses, tossing the bucket into the shed and slamming the door. I step back and hid a smile. As hard as he wants to pretend to be, he really does seem to like these damn bird.

I clear my throat, "So…I was on my way over to wake you anyway…" I start.

Haymitch eyes me out of the corner of his eye as he wrangles the self-freed bird back into the pen.

"We had a surprise visitor this morning," I tell him.

He nods and bends down to reattach a length of chicken wire that has come loose from a stump. "Yep, I heard," he mumbles, twisting the thin wire around a rusty nail.

I shake my head, "What?...I mean how?" I ask, confused.

"It was the phone that woke me this morning," he says straightening up.

"Really?" I ask, "Who was it and what did they tell you?"

"Effie called to tell me to expect a visit from Captain District 12 today," explains.

This causes a smile to pull at my lips. An act of god or Effie Trinket, can I call it or what? I muse. but I quickly hide it by turning to look at the birds. "Did she tell you why he was coming?" I ask, managing to keep the smile out of my tone.

He shakes his head, "She was persistent that it be a surprise. I reminded her that calling me to tell me to expect a surprise kinda ruined the whole surprise factor, but she wouldn't give in," he says.

"Well, it's a doozy," I say turning to face him. "They want us in the Capitol in a month, Mockingjay in tow," I tell him, the words souring my mood and making my feelings of moments ago seem frivolous.

Haymitch nods solemnly. "Based on the high pitch whine in her voice I was guessin' it was something like that. How's sweetheart handlin' the news?"

I shrug, "She didn't go running from the room in a fit of panic if that's what you're asking?"

"That's not all I'm askin'," he says, turning and heading off across the yard towards Katniss house. We walk a few steps in silence, before he asks, "Did the Captain cause a scene?" He asks, pausing at the bottom of the back steps.

I shake my head, "No. He doesn't like me…and he hates you, but no, he was…" I pause, looking for the right word, "professional with her," I finally say.

He considers my answer for a long moment before sighing and turning for the stairs.


End file.
